Redemption
by Baka Gaijin30
Summary: Yuri. Five years after the end of Noir, can Kirika and Mireille ever find redemption.
1. Prologue

-Redemption-

Disclaimer: I do not own Noir, nor am I making any sort of profit whatsoever off this, so please don't sue me.

Author's Note: "Madelle" is the French form of the English "Ms."

-Prologue-

Mireille Bouquet strode past the small Christmas tree set up in the lobby and through the labyrinth of small office cubicles towards the back where her office was. Mireille-Tech Industries was one of the largest security firms in all of Western Europe, providing both personal and private surveilance devices, security guards, and support for the wealthy as well as free self-defence seminars to women and others in various cities from Paris to Milan. There was an old saying, "it takes a thief to catch a thief." In the past, the blonde had been able to both figure out the major weaknesses in most security systems and how to exploit their weaknesses to get to her targets. If anyone knew about how to make security more secure, it was her.

She'd started the business with blood money. At first, she didn't give it a second thought. Oh sure, she could see the irony involved in the situation, but there were no sort of pangs of guilt involved. Lately however, she wasn't so sure.

As she sat behind her large oak desk, she turned on her computer and began absently going through the quarterly reports. She noted that sales had fallen off a bit recently. Not too surprising given the recent economic crunch most of Europe was now going through. Mireille-Tech was still making a profit though, just no longer as big a profit.

She scanned through her private emails. Nothing of major importance.

Where was she? Was she safe? Was she happy?

Was she still alive.

A knock on her door pulled her attention away from the screen. "Come in," she said, assuming an air of authority as her private secretary Francois entered carrying a bundle of papers.

"Madelle," he said politely as he stepped forward, "The private investigator you hired, Messier Jacques Francoeur, has finally filed his report." He momentarily allowed his eyes to wander over his boss' form, noting how the business suit clung to her form, how her legs looked in heels, how her eyes glared into his...

He'd been caught looking at his boss. Flustered, he quickly passed the report over, bid "adeu," and left. Mireille stared at the now closed door for a few seconds before looking down at the bundle of papers in front of her. There was a time when she wouldn't have needed a private investigator, when she could've found anybody, no matter where in the world they were hiding. But not her. If she didn't want her to find her, she wouldn't. Besides, there was always the risk of what the Soldats might make of such a search. True, they left her alone and told both of them they were now free, but she didn't trust them. Hiring a third party made sense. She wouldn't expect a private investigator, her guard would be down. The Soldats would hardly be interested in one private investigator's search for a missing person, especially if he were careful what questions he asked and where he asked them.

Five years. She'd be twenty now. Five years since she'd disappeared after they returned from the castle. She continued to look down at the report, her heart feeling like it was about to beat out of her chest. Perhaps she'd finally found peace. Perhaps it was wrong of Mireille to seek for her. But what if she was suffering? Even if she were now married with a brood of kids, the blonde had to know why.

She had to know why she left.

With a shaking hand, Mireille pulled the bundle over and began to read.

--

She walked past the puddle of urine at the bottom of the stairs, the smells of sex, sweat, marijuana and excrement filled the air. The stairs creaked beneath her feet, her hand jealously holding onto her paper bag as she ignored the peeling plaster walls and flickering overhead light. She stepped over a young redheaded girl smoking from a crack pipe at the top of the stairs and made her way past the other junkies filling the hallways. There were no doors on any of the rooms, and the building itself was condemned and set for demolition next month. Maybe, just maybe, she'd get lucky and find sweet release in dark oblivion by then.

Finding a free spot, she sat down and opened her bag, her own little Christmas gift to herself. She lit her small candle and pulled out a small baggie and a spoon. Somewhere someone was entering the crack house she thought absently as she wrapped the rubber strap around her upper arm and filled the syringe. She could hear the stairs creak as she stuck the needle into her arm and closed her eyes, losing herself in sweet bliss and ecstasy. She heard footsteps, but they didn't matter. On a good day, there were moments when she couldn't feel or remember anything. No painful memories, no regrets, no sorrows that ate away at her soul, nothing. It was funny; once upon a time, she'd lamented her absence of memories and wondered why she couldn't feel sorrow. Now she longed to get back to that state, if only for a few minutes.

"Hello, Kirika."

She opened her bloodshot, sunken eyes and looked up. It took a few moments for the junkie to realize that the woman in front of her was not some sort of hallucination. As the blonde knelt down in front of her, she slowly cracked open her cracked and chapped lips, "The ghost of Christmas past," she muttered, her voice sounding scratchy, "How did you find me?"

Mireille could feel a lump swelling up in her throat as she looked at the thin young woman in front of her. "Private investigator," she answered, trying to keep her voice steady.

Kirika nodded understandingly. Her once short black hair was now shoulder length and matted. "I see..."

Mireille could feel her eyes beginning to tear up. "Why?" she finally managed, "Why did you leave? Why are you here?"

Kirika blinked her eyes and looked away from her former partner. "Because you made me feel," she said, staring off at the ceiling. "Because I couldn't handle it. The blood on my hands, your parents..." looking back at the Corsican, she smiled weakly, a sad look in her eyes. "Because you didn't keep your promise. You let me live. You left me with these blood stains on my hands, on my soul. So, since you couldn't keep your word," she said as she held up her now empty syringe, "I'm keeping it for you, one day at a time."

Mireille covered her mouth as the tears started to flow. Standing up, she began to back out of the room. "I... I'm sorry, I..." she turned and rushed out of the room. Kirika silently watched the blonde leave and lifted up a bone-thin hand.

"Merry Christmas," she called out.

--

The Corsican exited the building and began to weep, leaning one hand against a lamp pole as she covered her face with the other. As snow fell around her, she struggled to regain her composure. She had to go back in, she knew that. She had to go back in and get her out of there, by force if necessary, and get Kirika help. She was reaching into her purse for a handkerchief when she heard the soft sound of snow crunching under feet as several figures approached her.

"Hey little lady, you in the wrong side of town?" a male voice asked.

"A pretty thing like you shouldn't be wandering about all alone. You never know who you might run into."

Mireille looked up to see three dirty looking men coming towards her. From their appearance she guessed they were members of a street gang, and from the looks in their eyes and the way they were approaching her, she had a fairly good idea what was on their mind. As one of them quickly cut off an exit route down a side street, the other two slowly approached her. She narrowed her eyes as one of them reached for her coat. Grabbing his wrist with her free hand, she twisted as she shifted her weight, hip-tossing him into the side of a trash can next to her.

It was then than an unseen fourth gang member hit her from behind with a crowbar. She collapsed, falling hard on her face and splitting her lip. She started to rise up on all fours when a foot came into her gut, knocking the wind out of her.

"Son-of-a-bitch!" the one cursed as he picked himself up and wiped the garbage off his dark green jacket. "You don't know who you just fucked with, you bitch!"

Mireille coughed up some blood. Reaching up, she felt that the back of her head was bleeding. She was injured, unarmed, and surrounded by four very dangerous individuals. The more things change...

"You're dead!" another voice screamed. Mireille's head was yanked back painfully by the hair as a handgun was pressed against her temple, the coldness of the steel causing her to wince. "You hear me, bitch? We're gonna fuck you and then we're gonna..."

"Aaah!"

The three gang members surrounding Mireille looked over to see their comrade staring at them wide eyed, mouth hung open as if he were screaming even though no sound came forth. His eyes rolled backward and he fell forward dead before he even hit the pavement, a hypodermic syringe stuck deep into his skull. Behind him stood Kirika, her hands red with blood and her eyes emotionlessly regarding the three young men surrounding Mireille.

"Holy shit!"

"You," the one with the gun growled, "That was my brother, you bitch!" He let go of Mireille's hair, the Corsican's head falling to the dirty street with a thud once more as he pointed the gun at Kirika. Moving rapidly, Kirika grabbed the hand he was holding the gun with as she kicked him behind the knee. He shrieked in pain as he fell to his knees. She then stuck her fingers up his nostrils and yanked, breaking his nose. He pulled the gun's trigger out of reflex as the former assassin aimed his hand at the other two men still surrounding Mireille. As they fell dead, she yanked the gun away and roundhouse kicked him in the head. She then shot him in the back of the head, watching unflinchingly as his body twitched and then lay still.

Mireille, groaning in pain, sat up on the back of her legs. Her eyes met Kirika's, the two staring silently at one another for a few seconds before the assassin turned junkie pulled out the gun's clip and tossed it in the garbage. Looking once more over to the blonde struggling to her feet, blood streaming from the Corsican's lip and nose, a single tear traveled down the junkie's cheek.

"Why?" she asked, "Why didn't you just kill me when you had the chance? Why..." she collapsed, passing out from the drugs and the exertion. Mireille clutched her still sore abdomen as she knelt by Kirika.

"I'm sorry," she whispered as she pulled out her cellphone and quickly dialed a number, "I'm so sorry..."

-To Be Continued-


	2. Chapter 1

-Redemption-

Disclaimer: I do not own the series Noir, so please don't sue me.

Author's note: Okay, I seemed to have goofed up on my French. While Mademoiselle is the correct proper for an unmarried French woman, I guess one wouldn't say a last name next to it in conversation. So while Bouquet-san or Miss Bouquet makes sense in spoken Japanese and English, Mademoiselle Bouquet doesn't make sense in spoken French (please correct me if I'm wrong on this). Also, Madelle is the French form of the English Ms., and for whatever reason it occurs to me that Mireille would probably prefer to be referred to as Madelle than as Mademoiselle by her private secretary. So I've already corrected the prologue, and hopefully from here on out I'll get it right (crosses fingers).

--

We are the children  
of the midnight  
marching high  
in an icy mercury sky  
we sing and our breath  
turns to frost  
we watch and the frost melts  
we hear the crazy winds that weep  
we don't sleep  
where the minds meet  
in icy mercury seas  
we dream and we picture the same  
we dance and the world melts away.

-Curved Air, _Metamorphosis-_

-I-

Darkness.

Ultramarine reality crashing in upon her cellophane perceptions, cold breath steel underneath the burning lava glare. Corpses piled high into the scarlet black corners of her understanding. Random words, images, ideas that pop up only momentarily within her mind, too lost within herself to see or give time to that which brings with it reminders.

Memories.

Pain.

"_Good God! Mademoiselle, what has happened here?"_

"_We were attacked. My friend and I need help."_

"_Your... __**Friend**__?"_

A touch, a brushing of fingers on skin that feels like burning wasp venomed death. Fire, itchy...

"_Are those track marks?"_

"_Look, you said any time I wished to call in that favor..."_

"_Yes, I know. But these bodies, your wounds, this young addict... What do we tell the authorities?"_

"_We could always tell them what I know of the Mercurial incident."_

"_Hurm... I'll have an ambulance here right away."_

"_No ambulance. I want a helicopter. I need to get her to Paris."_

Make a pilgrimage to the past...

Saving her again? Stop. No. In a half dozen languages she cries out protestations, but gurgling is all that comes out. Her cotton filled mouth refuses cooperation, her muscles mutiny as well against their mistress. Lights, white and beautiful, fly by her just out of range. Buck up, pump up, ignore screeching nail on chalkboard pain, open eyes. A crack, and she sees shadow figures under a snow globe night reaching down to lift her. She feel it come, familiar cramp, unwelcome reminder of her humanity

A sudden contraction. Stomach contents spill out. Jostling. Cursing. Crying. More jostling. The world seen and felt through a dirty ashtray. Stooges in black suits, they had parents too? She killed parents. Parents, politicians, saints, the good and the bad. Dry heaves. More fingers, fingers probe and needles stab, medical terminology, scrutinizing of rubber gloved fingers feeling for her pulse. She feels no pain. She feels excruciating pain.

She feels nothing.

She feels everything.

The words come to her from a million miles away, borne on the nautical winds. Barbed wire fingers on overly sensitive skin, an itch that can't be scratched.

"_Kirika, if you can hear me, we're in a van right now on the way to an airport. The woman who's attending to you right now is a doctor..."_

Voice less distant, thoughts less hurried and disorganized. No. No, no, no, no! Keep back reality, keep back memories, feelings, regret, keep back!

She feels her eye forced open, bright spotlight third degree no escape pen light pain...

"_Mademoiselle, her pupils aren't dilating like they should. You say there will be more medical personnel on the chopper?"_

"_Oui."_

"_Good, because we're losing her."_

Immaculate fix, come back.

She sees her eyes as the bright light goes away. Sacred sky ultramarine blue looking down at her, pain open to all.

More needles, more pain. She's on fire from the inside out, and she can feel every lurch of the speeding vehicle they're in on the Richter scale. She's pushing Altena into the pit, she's killing Chloe, she's killing black suited stooge after black suited stooge by the Corsican's side, she's killing an old man considered a saint, she's sending her an email asking her to go on a journey with her...

She's in a steel cage, naked, eating out of a dog bowl as Altena watches on smiling...

No, no, no, no, no!

"_Kirika!"_

_What in the world..."_

"_Hold her down!"_

Not again. Not these memories. Not the before times, **please**!

Short random glimpses, out of order. Sometimes the past comes multiple choice, and she is left to decide what's real, what's imagination, and what's a falsely implanted memory. Rubber hoses, Altena's smile as she instructs her not to bother cleaning the basket since there'll only be more heads later, her touch, no, no, no, no!

"_Keep her down!"_

"_Kirika!"_

"**AAAAAAAAA!**" she screamed as she sat straight up, her eyes wide open as she grabbed onto Mireille as if for dear life. She was in the present again, though she didn't wish to be.

The van stopped. The doors opened and hands reached in and surround her as they try to get her to release her grip on Mireille.

She refused.

She won't.

She can't.

"Stop," Mireille ordered, "Don't touch her!" They backed off, and the Corsican tentatively wrapped her arms around her, holding her close. Kirika put her head on her chest, the sound of the older woman's heartbeat slowly calming her. Slowly she began to loosen her grip. Mireille picked her up in her arms like a mother with a sickly child and walked past those present toward the waiting helicopter, the junkie's head resting against her shoulder. They got in, the others following at a respectable distance.

The doctor from the van quickly came over and administered a sedative. As Kirika's eyes became heavy and she slipped off, Mireille reluctantly allowed her to be taken away by the others and hooked up to I.V. and monitoring equipment. Her breathing began to finally normalize as the copter rose up into the cold winter night.

Mireille found a seat and collapsed, a groan escaping her lips as she leaned back into the headrest. A middle-aged doctor with a mustache came over with an ice pack, instructing her to hold it against the growing welt on her forehead as he looked at her injuries. "That's a bad cut to the lip you've suffered."

Mireille didn't respond. Her attention was too focused on the activity surrounding Kirika. She thought back to their leaving the mansion, each supporting the other as Mireille asked Kirika for tea when they got back. There was a note, in the sugar cup. It's six words were burned into the Corsican's psyche, haunting her for the last five years.

"I love you, don't follow me."

Mireille winced as the doctor discovered the bruises to her ribs from when one of the gang members kicked her. As he noted the possibility of fractures to her, she suddenly saw her bloody reflection in the window just over his shoulder. Was it her imagination, or did there used to be much less blood involved in these kind of fights? She gazed once more at Kirika as she was hooked up to oxygen and sighed. They were once Noir. They were damn near invincible together, fighting off armies of Soldat goons against impossible odds. Now, after being apart for five years, Kirika had fallen apart under the weight of her own guilt and Mireille had become so sloppy that she was taken down by a mere four hoodlums. They needed each other, now more than ever, because it was obvious neither was complete without the other.

Besides, Mireille thought to herself as turbulance shook the copter, she loved Kirika too.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out her cellphone. "Francois, have the arrangements been made yet?"

"Oui, Madelle. Your staff has been informed that you are taking some much needed vacation time. However, the investor's meeting next week..."

"Will just have to be postponed. Understood?"

"Oui, Madelle."

"Good. And Francois, have you seen to it that my... Private hideaway is prepared."

"Well... That is..."

"Francois?"

"Madelle, the men whom I sent to prepare the apartment, they... Are you aware that there are bullet holes lining the wall?"

Mireille flinched as the doctor began taping her ribs. "I don't care. I want everything set and ready for when I arrive in two hours, understood?"

"Oui, Madelle."

She hung up. She was in no mood whatsoever to deal with her personal secretary right now. She once more leaned her head back, still holding the ice pack to her forehead. A heart monitor over on Kirika's side of the helicopter began beeping rhythmically to the young junkie's heart beat. Mireille set the ice pack down and closed her eyes. She needed to grab what sleep she could, because she had no idea what would happen come tomorrow morning when Kirika awoke, and she knew she had to be prepared for anything.

--

_The hall is filled with women in robes holding candles. The stone walls themselves bear lit torches, and the entire room is filled with an aura of grave solemnity. She sees Chloe already kneeling before one of the two marble altars. Altena leads her by the hand to the other altar. On the altar is a single lit candle and two skulls. She looks questioningly up at Altena, the older woman smiling down at her as she whispers in her ear._

"_They were your parents."_

_Kirika's eyes widen. "My... parents?"_

"_Yes, Kirika, you killed them, remember?_ _Kneel down," she continued, "And show your parents your respects."_

_She kneels down, and finds herself at the bottom of the deep end of a swimming pool. On her knees, she notices there is blood all around her, up to her thighs. Worms and maggots swim in the dark scarlet viscuous fluid surrounding her, and as she looks up she sees dozens, hundreds of dead men in black suits in various stages of decomposition standing motionless around the pool, looking down at her through what's left of their eyes._

_"The average swimming pool takes eighteen thousand to twenty thousand gallons of water to fill," Altena's voice says from somewhere unseen. "And the human body contains one and a quarter gallons of blood. I'm disappointed in you, Kirika. You've barely reached the foot marker in the deep end."_

_"It's still enough to drown in though, isn't it?" Chloe points out._

_Kirika continues to look around at the corpses, the stains upon her soul. In the midst of the crowd she saw her; the golden haired child with sky blue eyes, full of shock and sadness. A familiar song reaches her ears, and she looks down to see the watch in her hand. _

_"Yes," Altena finally says in response to Chloe's remark, "It is indeed enough to drown in."_

_Kirika understands. She looks back up, unable to bear the girl's gaze. Closing her eyes, she stretches her arms out and falls forward into the dark scarlet pool..._

--

Kirika slowly woke up. She'd had the same recurring nightmare now for longer than she could remember, and it always ended the same. She opened her eyes a crack, and quickly shut them against the bright glare of morning. Cracking them open once more, she quickly examined herself and her surroundings. She was wearing clean pink pajamas, and was hooked up to oxygen. An I.V. unit dripped medicine into her arm, and the room...

Kirika was startled. She recognized the bedroom almost instantly. On the nightstand next to her was a glass of orange juice along with a note. "Let me know when you wake up," it said in exquisitely written French. She could hear movement in the other room. She didn't have to see her, no one moved quite like Mireille did. Part of her wanted desperately to reach out to her, to be held by her, to be saved.

But she knew that could never be. Not after all she'd done to her.

She began to scratch herself as the needles and pins of withdrawal began to set in. Cautiously, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and tried to stand up. No good. They must have administered some sort of sedative, she reasoned as she continued to scratch herself raw. She then remembered something. Opening the drawer of the nightstand, she found the old familiar first aid kit still there, a fine layer of dust from years of disuse covering it. She opened it, not knowing how much time she'd have before Mireille would be checking up on her, and pulled out a pair of medical safety scissors.

She set the scissors down on the nightstand and pulled the oxygen from her nose. Grabbing her pillow, she bit down into it, the pillow muffling her cries as she yanked the I.V. from her arm. Then, as quietly as she could, she began cutting the bedsheets into strips.

Meanwhile, Mireille was in the other room waiting for Kirika to wake up and call her. A whistling sound from the kitchen alerted her that the water was done. She went in and fixed herself a cup of tea. As she added the sugar, she mused that tea hadn't tasted right in over five years. Her lower lip was still sore and swollen, so she would have to wait for it to cool a bit before drinking. Meanwhile, she would go in and check up on...

A loud crash from the bedroom grabbed her attention. "Kirika," she gasped as she ran into the bedroom. "Kirika, what's wrong, I..." her voice died away as she saw the bedroom window opened, and a rope made out of bedsheets tied to the bedpost hanging out the window. She ran to the window and looked down. There was no sign of her, and because of the heavy pedestrian traffic that time of year there were too many tracks in the snow for her to pick up the girl's path.

"Shit!" she growled as she ran out of the room. Grabbing her coat, she left in such a hurry that she'd forgot to shut to shut the apartment door. A second went by, then another then a third. Finally, Kirika began to crawl out of her hiding space underneath the bed. Mireille would no doubt be out in the city looking for her for hours, giving her time to make her escape. Her legs still weren't working yet, but she found she was making good time dragging herself along by her arms and hands. She was almost to the door, when a well-dressed figure appeared in the doorway and cut her off.

Kirika's eyes widened in shock. "You!"

"Ah, Kirika, you're up and about I see," Breffort said with a smile as he leaned in on his cane. "Good. Come, we have much to talk about."

-To Be Continued-


	3. Chapter 2

-Redemption-

Disclaimer: I do not own Noir, nor am I making any profit off this story, so please don't sue me.

--

-II-

Mireille ran as fast as she could into the cold December night. Her mind raced as she tried to think of where Kirika could've gone in her condition. Perhaps the sewers where they used to practice target shooting, or maybe the hill overlooking the river where she'd once tried painting. As she ran, her lungs burning from the cold, she suddenly heard footsteps behind her.

She looked behind her, and caught a fleeting glimpse of something moving behind a newsstand. She was being followed. She narrowed her eyes, her nostrils flaring out as her body tensed. She turned and ran once more, the footsteps once again following her. She darted around the side of a building and waited, her heart beating fast as she heard her pursuer coming ever closer. She clenched her fists and, as the mystery person at last showed she immediately struck, kicking the surprised person in the gut and knocking the wind out of him.

As her pursuer sank to his knees in agony, Mireille looked more closely at her would-be tracker. "Francois?" Mireille asked, shocked to be seeing her private secretary in that area of Paris, "What…"

"Ah, ah, ah," he heaved, trying to catch his breath after the kick to his lower abdomen, "S… Sorry t… to have dis… disturbed you, ah…"

Mireille's face softened as she came over to him. "I'm sorry," she offered, "I thought you might've been someone else."

"Ah, ah, who?" he managed, "That p… person you were bringing back with you?"

Mireille shook her head. "No, more like some people she and I know."

"You… you mean the Soldats?"

Mireille's eyes widened. "How do you know of…"

"She's back at the apartment," Francois groaned as he finally got back to his feet, "I've been sent to find you and bring you back."

Mireille looked icily at her private secretary. "Of course you realize you're fired, right?"

"I'll have my resignation on your desk come Monday. Come," he said as he led the way, "My car is back here." As Mireille cautiously went with him, he pulled out his cell phone, "I've got her," he said into the receiver, "We're on our way."

--

"Good," Breffort said, closing his phone as he turned his attention back to the young lady still sprawled out on the floor in front of him. He reached down to take her hand, and she recoiled. "Oh, come now," he said, "In your present condition if I wished to harm you you'd already be dead. Now give me your hand and I'll try to help you up onto the couch at least." She studied him silently for a moment, then tentatively gave him her hand. "There we go, that's a girl." After a bit of maneuvering, Kirika finally made it onto the couch.

Breathing a heavy sigh from the exertion, Breffort sat down next to her, rubbing his now sore leg. Looking over to the woman sitting next to him, he watched as she continued to shiver and shake as she itched herself uncontrollably. For the briefest of seconds, something akin to empathy glinted across his aged eyes, then was gone. She looked at him through sunken, dark eyes, waiting to hear what he had to say, all the while mentally noting how many ways she could kill him if necessary.

"Noir," he finally said, his voice grave and solemn, "It is the name of an ancient fate. Two maidens who govern death, the peace of the newly born, their black hands protect. To ward the darkness from the nursing babes, their black robes serve as shields." He met her gaze, "Kirika, your former partner Mireille will be here soon. I want you to listen to everything I'm about to tell you as best you can. From the moment Mireille went to you, the two of you have been watched. Do you understand?"

"Hmmm," Kirika said with a nod. Breffort looked less than convinced, but decided to continue.

"'If love can kill people, surely hatred can save people.' So Altena believed, so the Soldats once believed as well. The Soldats sin for mankind's sins, et cetera, et cetera. I'm sure by now you're up to speed on the whole 'save the world through sin' sales speech, correct?"

Kirika was taken aback by Breffort's sarcastic tone. "Then you no longer believe that hate can save?"

Breffort leaned back into the sofa with a sigh. "Kirika, haven't you been even the least bit curious what happened to the Soldats after that night at the mansion, after Le Grande Retour?" Noting by her expression that the answer was no, he smiled a bit and continued. "Chaos. That's what happened after you and Mireille left, total chaos. Le Grande Retour was meant to return the Soldats to their roots. Altena believed we had become decadent and had lost our way. We were supposed to be apart from the world and somewhere along the way we _became _the world. Altena was right though," he quickly added in a hushed tone, "We _had_ become decadent, we had forgotten our origins, our original intentions. Save the world through sin. Oh, we tried to stop it, myself and the other higher echelons, but in the end we failed. You and your partner emerged from the mansion as Noir. The minute Mireille ordered all who feared the darkness to step back, we knew we'd failed."

Kirika looked puzzled as she tried to process all Breffort was telling her in her present condition. "You said something about chaos?"

Breffort nodded, "You were… _are_ Noir. You were meant to cleanse the earth, protect the newborn, purge the Soldats of corruption. Instead, you became a heroin addict and the Corsican went into the home security business. The pseudo-religious underpinnings of the traditionalist Soldats, and of the underground Soldat Priestesshood, have been rocked to the core. And the modernist Soldats see that all the fighting, the killing, the mayhem, was one huge waste of time. You've become a conflict of faith on both sides. As a result, the entire thousand-year Soldat organization has been rocked to the core. You have seemingly failed in your mission, yet as Noir you can not fail in your mission."

"As a result," Breffort continued, "We've completely fallen apart, men and women boldly breaking ranks and leaving in droves. Some going underground, others becoming freelance assassins such as you and Mireille once were, still others joining the mafia. However, a small group of ultra-traditionalists have taken a decidedly different route. They've dubbed themselves the Illuminate, after an eighteenth century underground Masonic group, and have come up with a rather unique answer to the problem you and Mireille have caused us."

Kirika was beginning to feel nauseous, beads of sweat appearing on her forehead. Her eyes darted from Breffort to around the room and back again. "Unique answer?"

Breffort smiled. "Question; why would the two holy maidens known as Noir abandon their mission? Answer; because they are not really Noir. They are imposters, pretenders to the throne. Chloe was originally meant to be Noir with you, not the Corsican. The ritual was never performed, the ritual was performed but it was invalid, the ritual was valid but was interrupted, and on and on. Take your pick, there's more than enough conspiracy theories within the Illuminate to explain how you and Mireille are not truly Noir. Then, there was last August…"

Kirika didn't like the way his tone changed, "Last August?"

Breffort scratched a bit behind his ear and continued. "A tournament was held at the Mansion, one which even we knew nothing about until after the event. Sixteen young maidens showed up under the auspices of the Illuminate. They were new saplings, Kirika, new candidates to become Noir. Sixteen showed up for the tournament, and the two that survived performed the Le Grande Retour under the auspices of a high priestess named Colette. The problem is, you and Mireille are Noir, and you are both still alive. If there is to be any new Noir, and if the new Grand Retour is to gain any sort of legitimacy among the remaining Soldats, the old Noir, or as they now refer to you, the _Anti_-Noir, must be eliminated."

Kirika's eyes widened slightly. "And is that why you're having Mireille returned here? So you can eliminate us both and pave the way for this new Noir? Because if you harm Mireille…"

Breffort chuckled a bit as he shook his head. "No, that's not why. The ritual, Le Grand Retour, was performed. You are both Noir, you will always be the two holy maidens. We are forbidden from interfering with or harming you or Mireille. But at the present moment within the Soldats there are two sets of holy maidens, two Noir. The situation is akin to the Great Western Schisms that rocked the Catholic Church in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, where as many as three different men claimed to be the Pope, nearly splitting the Church apart."

Kirika narrowed her eyes, "Then you want us to eliminate the rival Noir?"

"No, I want you and Mireille to stay out of it."

The answer took Kirika by surprise.

"To be completely honest, you're an embarrassment. We never wanted Le Grande Retour, but it happened anyways despite our best efforts to stop it. We can't kill you ourselves, because for better or worse you _are_ Noir. We can't risk helping you either, however. After all, just suppose the two other ladies claiming to be Noir should succeed in killing the two of you. Where would that leave us? They would then by default be Noir, and we would then be guilty of turning on the holy maidens. We are, for want of a better phrase, stuck between a rock and a hard place. From our own collective point of view, it would be easier on everyone if the four of you simply killed each other off."

Ignoring the scathing look Kirika gave him, he continued, "I am here to ask you both to go into hiding. If the two of you disappear, the new Noir will never be able to gain full and complete legitimacy, since both of you will still be alive. Neither you nor Mireille wish to have anything to do with being Noir or with the Soldats, so neither of you poses any real danger to us. Go, and take Mireille with you. Find the furthest, most isolated spot you can, where nobody would ever think to look for the two of you…"

"So you can then give our location to the other Noir, playing us against each other as you strengthen your own position."

Both Breffort and Kirika looked over to the door where Mireille stood glaring at the elderly Soldat. She walked into the room, followed by Francois.

Breffort smiled, "Ah, Mireille. How much have you heard?"

"Enough," the blonde responded coldly. "Why don't I trust you?"

"Because I'm not trustworthy," Breffort quipped. "But then, you made my visit here necessary. All was well and good until you decided to try to find Kirika. If you'd simply allowed her to remain a junkie in a crack house…"

"Fuck you," Mireille growled. "You…" her voice died off as she felt a gun barrel pressed into the back of her head. "F… Francois?" she sputtered out in disbelief.

"Shut up," her former personal secretary ordered. "Get over there with the others."

"Francois," Breffort asked as he nervously began fingering the elaborate gold head of his cane, "What is the meaning of this?"

"The anti-Noir must die!" Francois declared as he aimed his gun at Breffort, "As well as all heretics who would help them!"

Breffort smirked. "Indeed?" he asked, pressing a hidden button on the head of his cane. A small wooden dart shot out, imbedding itself into Francois' thigh. The Illuminate froze, suddenly unable to move or even speak. As he began to tremble, Breffort walked over. "No doubt you're wondering what was on that dart that's now paralyzed you. To be honest, I'm not completely sure myself. I only know that it comes from a species of South American frogs the natives use to poison the tips of their spears and arrows. Here," he said as he took the gun from Francois' grasp, "I'll take that if you don't mind."

As Francois fell to the floor foaming at the mouth, Breffort turned back to Mireille and Kirika. "Go. Get out of Paris and of France as quickly as the two of you can. Take only what you need, and try not to leave any trail behind to follow."

He turned and left, stepping over the now dead Illuminate on his way out.

Mireille quickly got up and began to drag the body of her former secretary back into the bathroom. Kirika tried to get up and immediately fell to the floor. Balling up her fists, she brought them down onto the floor as she began to cry.

"Why did you come for me?" she demanded, "Why did you drag both of us back into this?"

Mireille came back into the room and knelt down to her former partner, "Kirika…"

"All I've wanted for the past five years is to forget, to lose myself. Why…" she began to sob uncontrollably, "Why…

Mireille reached out and held both sides of Kirika's face. Their eyes locked. "How dare you," she began as she leaned in closer, "How dare you tell me you love me, and then leave me? How dare you do this to yourself, to us?"

Kirika didn't know what to say. "Mireille…" she is silenced as the Corsican presses her lips against hers. Her eyes shot open in disbelief as she felt the blonde's full soft lips against her own. Soon enough, she closed her eyes as Mireille wrapped her arms around her. As they separated, she lay her head on the older woman's shoulder. "I'm sorry," she whispered, "I'm so sorry."

Mireille held her close as if to shield her from some invisible enemy. "We'll leave at once," she said as she kissed the top of Kirika's head, "We'll get you help. And we'll find a place where they'll never think to look for us. Just don't leave me again, please."

Kirika looked up at her, "Mireille, you don't know what I've done in the last five years to survive."

"It doesn't matter to me," the Corsican said adamantly, "It's all in the past. Come on," she said, holding her close as she helped her to her feet, "We have to get moving."

A short time later, the two stole out of the building, Mireille supporting Kirika as they made their escape from Paris. Behind a phone booth, Breffort watched them hail a cab for the airport. As they left, he silently wished them good luck.

--

Aurore Moreau emerged from the ocean onto the warm beach sands of the Riviera, water dripping down her chocolaty brown skin as she strode over to the lawn chair her towel was draped over. She could feel the admiring glances of the men around her as she dried herself off and sat down next to a slightly younger Chinese girl working on a laptop. "So," she said as she brushed back a strand of ebony black hair behind her ear and put on a pair of sunglasses, "Have we found anything yet?"

Ching Lan shook her head. "No. Contact with Francois was broken two hours ago"

The West African frowned at that. "I think it's safe to assume he's been eliminated."

Ching nodded gravely. "Collette won't like this."

"No doubt," Aurore agreed "But with the Illuminate on the hunt and one of them no doubt going through painful withdrawals, time is on our side. Come," she said, holding out her hand to her companion, "Let's head back to our room. We'll take our rightful place soon enough." Both women gathered their belongings and headed back to the resort they were staying at. The time would come, they both knew, when they would be acknowledged as the true Noir and the false Anti-Noir would be but a bad memory. They would return to Soldats to their original purity, they would purge the corrupt world of its decadence, they would wash all in a sea of blood if need be.

Until then, they would watch.

And wait.

-To Be Continued-


End file.
